


country road, take me home

by homovikings



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drabble, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 14:13:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15196514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homovikings/pseuds/homovikings
Summary: It’s the 21st century and Tony is driving a 1986 Chevy pickup down some awfully-paved road in the middle of Absolute Nowhere, Indiana.





	country road, take me home

**Author's Note:**

> hey this is for kathryn!! @coolguyreiner on twit

It’s the 21st century and Tony is driving a 1986 Chevy pickup down some awfully-paved road in the middle of Absolute Nowhere, Indiana — for the last several miles he’s seen nothing but cornfields and blue skies, John Denver belting some tunes out of the crackling radio, with a bag of spare clothes sitting in the passenger seat.

He’s got no phone. No tracker. No watch, no suit. Just him and a bag filled with paint-splattered jeans and worn flannel.

Tony sings along, one arm hanging out the window. He relaxes.

* * *

It’s not a cottage but it’s not exactly a _house_ , either. It’s four rooms — the entryway slash living room, a bedroom, one bathroom with shoddy plumbing, and a kitchenette. The backyard is a mess of wildflowers and weeds and wasp nests, the old picnic table pretty much overwhelmed by greenery. Tony stares at the front steps with their peeling paint fondly.

It’s ugly. It’s really, objectively, very ugly — the paneling is a faded green, with faded yellow window shutters and glass almost opaque with dust. He’s thankful for the box of cleaning supplies he knows is stashed under the cabinet in the kitchen.

Tony kills the engine, grabs his bag, and heads inside. A thick plume of dust greets him and he spends the next several hours cleaning — opening ancient windows, airing the place out, cleaning tabletops and gagging as he tosses out rancid-smelling refrigerator items. Within several hours the place smells clean, lived-in, and he collapses onto the couch and closes his eyes in a doze.

* * *

Neither of them lived in Indiana. To them, it’s a nobody state — the one near Illinois and Ohio, with fields of vegetation and nothingness. Maybe that’s why Tony agreed so readily when Steve slid his StarkPad over, a page open showing a dilapidated little shack for sale. Maybe that’s why Tony bought it so quickly, why he had sentimental furniture items shipped to it, why he had both of them keys made.

Maybe that’s why Tony placed a bit of his heart, the bit solely reserved for Steve, into this homely little thing.

* * *

On the third day, after unloading groceries from a town too far away, Tony hears a car pull up and stop outside. He doesn’t pause; keeps pulling items out.

Four loafs of bread — _check_. Two dozen eggs — _check_. Cream cheese, crackers, deli meats, Cool Ranch Doritos, a 24-pack of water bottles —

“Tony.”

Steve fucking Rogers — _check_.

* * *

(They meet in the middle. Tony stares at Steve, flares his nostrils, feels an insurmountable rage but he can’t stop himself from moving forward, from _yanking_ Steve’s head into a kiss, and it’s a battle — it’s a fucking fight, their mouths gnashing together, teeth clinking, until one of them whimpers and then it’s apologetic, it’s, it’s fucking _sweet,_ is what it is, and Tony knows, then, that it’s _him_ who’s making the pained noises, and Steve is lowering them to the ground and they’re rutting and they’re grinding and Steve is gasping into Tony’s neck, “I love you, I love you, fuck, _Tony_ , I’m s — I love you,” and Tony’s coming in his pants like some _teenager_ , and then they lay there, panting, and Tony’s not quite sure how to proceed but Steve lifts his head and kisses him so sweetly and kisses down his neck and his chest and his belly and cleans him with his mouth, sucks him down, all the while murmuring _I love you_.)

* * *

Steve cooks breakfast.

Tony drinks shitty coffee and eats slightly-runny eggs and shovels soggy toast into his mouth, rambles about absolutely fucking _nothing_ while Steve listens, while he smiles, while he offers input and criticism and twists his face in that infuriating manner that gets _right_ under Tony’s skin.

Later, they cuddle on the couch and watch reruns of their favorite shows, watch a movie or two; Steve complains so much about the horror films they binge that Tony wrestles the StarkPad out of his grasp and puts some disgusting romcom on. Steve watches intently. Tony pretends to not find it adorable as fuck.

* * *

They don’t fuck.

They make love.

Tony grew up thinking there was no difference between the two — you fuck, you make love. It’s the same thing with two different identifiers. Badabing, badaboom.

But that night Tony arches ‘neath Steve and gasps, almost sobs with the force of his pleasure, as Steve worships him from top to bottom, sucks lingering marks into his skin and fucks into him so good Tony’s going to be feeling it for _weeks_. All the while Steve thrusts into him while maintaining eye contact and it’s almost too much, the intensity — Tony’s never been laid so bare before, but he _is_ , now, throws his head back and moans and thrusts up and lets Steve take him so readily and it’s fucking ruining him.

* * *

Tony drives the shitty ’86 Chevy into Indianapolis. He hops into a plane, ignores every question directed his way, and stares out the window of his private jet as they head towards Miami.

No one has to know, he thinks. No one other than them _deserves_ to know, he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u liked it kathryn ily <33


End file.
